


Fortsetzung Folgt

by copernicusjones



Series: Once Upon a Time in my Nazi-Occupied Single Brain Cell [3]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: (aka them saying/thinking shitty things bc they're disgusting garbage), (but disgusting garbage who deserve each other), During Canon, Established Relationship, Frottage, IDK if this is explicit or not but better rate too high than too low, Last Kiss, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: For years, Hellstrom has been a reliable source of amusement and satisfaction, one that Landa has no intention of ridding himself of any time soon.   And so, despite being ever busy with the upcoming premiere ofStolz der Nation, Landa takes the opportunity to share some stolen moments of downtime with his favorite major.[Sort-of sequel to "Preoccupied"]
Relationships: Dieter Hellstrom/Hans Landa
Series: Once Upon a Time in my Nazi-Occupied Single Brain Cell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164398
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Fortsetzung Folgt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CakeFlavoredFinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CakeFlavoredFinch/gifts).



> Reading "Preoccupied" first isn't really necessary but I'm not gonna stop anyone who wants to check it out, lol. There's more context to their dynamic that imo adds to this fic, but I do think this stands fine on its own.

Hans watches Fräulein Mimieux—or whoever she is—exit the front doors with her Negro employee. Her expression had been stoic, unreadable, when Hans had bid her adieu, but when he pulled her slim hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, he'd felt it tremble, so slightly but so _gloriously_. He's left, even now, with a wicked satisfaction that's a worthy reward to the tedium he's been faced with over the past couple weeks.  
  
Zoller's infatuation with Emmanuelle is not unwarranted; they would make the happy couple, he muses, with how they both slip into false intimations of themselves like a protective armor. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say they're well-suited for each other—to Hell with their theoretical happiness. Most importantly to Hans, however, is that Zoller and Emmanuelle are endlessly fascinating to peel apart and toy with, bat about. He can only imagine how much more so it'd be, were they together.  
  
But as it is, they are not yet together, and it's not as if Hans doesn't already have someone who engages his many faculties several steps away, in the office Emmanuelle has granted him.  
  
Hans enters the office to find Hellstrom seated behind the desk—in Hans's chair—idly rotating his lighter around in his right hand. He's been like this since arriving in France several weeks ago, radiating an untamable restlessness that Hans has used to his advantage. He acknowledges Hans's presence with a split-second glance, but otherwise ignores him—there's no protocol behind closed, and locked, doors.  
  
“Just think,” Hans says, standing in front of the desk and smiling across at Hellstrom. “Weeks of hard work and it'll all be over...” he checks his wristwatch, “Approximately thirty-six hours from now.”  
  
“And then, of course, we mustn't waste time before we start planning for Zoller's next premiere,” Hellstrom replies, a caustic smile appearing to match his words.  
  
“Ah, yes,” Hans agrees. “Or, more likely, his engagement to Fräulein Mimieux. What an affair that will be!”  
  
At that, Hellstrom stops spinning his lighter, flicks the lid open and shut, the loud metallic click echoing through the room. “I don't want to talk about Zoller or his little _Zicke_.”  
  
“ _You_ brought it up,” Hans points out, then attempts to honor Hellstrom's request. “Listen, I understand this has hardly been ideal, all the last minute changes, but I think you've adjusted commendably. I know we were to run through the evening one last time before parting ways, but if you don't think it's necessary, then I don't either. I don't want to wear you thin.”  
  
As though on cue, Hellstrom's eyes meet his. They've been involved for too long for Hellstrom to not know that Hans is mentally adding, _Like this_ , _at least_ , and it's evident in way Hans's smile is now verging towards a smirk.  
  
It's no small consolation that Hans would show deference to him, even something this minor, and Hellstrom knows it. “I haven't any preference. It's not like I have anything better to do.”  
  
A veiled way of saying he has no reservations about spending more time with Hans, a luxury they haven't been afforded with the hectic pace and constant shuffle over the past month.  
  
Hans sighs. Hellstrom's sullenness is nothing new, but it's been more pronounced lately than during their previous stays in France. There's several factors for this, but Hans is all too aware of how fruitless a venture it is to try and address these things with Hellstrom. Any conversation surrounding their respective emotions seems to only be permitted when at a bar and after downing a few drinks. Or, occasionally, the mornings after.  
  
For years, this has suited Hans fine, this unspoken contract revolving around sex and power dynamics, and the delicious, constant intertwining of the two. But, as these sort of arrangements are wont to do after ten years' time, it's grown decidedly more complicated than all that. Hans _worries_ for Hellstrom, as more than just his _Sturmbannführer_ , and it's not something he's used to yet, nor is he sure he'll ever be.  
  
“I would _like_ for you to have a preference, in this case,” he says firmly. “You know what's best for you. I'm not going to view it as a lack of commitment if you wish to call it a day.”  
  
“Fine,” Hellstrom concedes. He returns to spinning his lighter, more rapidly than before. “But I don't want to hear that I don't deserve to be a part of this assignment.”  
  
“Have I ever suggested you _don't_?” Hans asks, slightly affronted. As much as he teases Hellstrom about everything else under the sun, he would never imply his _Sturmbannführer_ isn't one of the most loyal officers the Gestapo has the privilege of boasting. Anyone who knows Hellstrom even half as well as Hans does knows full well the lengths he'd go to to prove his staunch devotion to the Reich.  
  
“I don't mean _you,_ ” Hellstrom says, sneer woven through his tone. “There's other officers here who think we should all be frothing at the mouth over this premiere, over Zoller, all while forgetting how crucial their role here _actually_ is. They're more concerned with the _guest list_. Chatting about the autographs they hope to get, or who they're longing to simply shake the hand of, say 'hello' to. But I'm the _Arschloch_ , the one who needs to 'lighten up', because I tell them to break it up when they're off giggling like _Schulmädchen_.”  
  
Hans refrains from informing Hellstrom that his fellow officers viewing him as an _Arschloch_ is likely due to a myriad of other reasons, not just the occasional reprimand.  
  
“Oh, Dieter, they're just _excited_. You know what that is, don't you? Excitement?” Hans sighs again, knowing sometimes Hellstrom wouldn't recognize fun if it jumped up and bit him on the nose. “It's possible to be both dedicated to your assignment _and_ possess an outsider's enthusiasm for it. Why, I know that's the case for me.”  
  
“Of course...” Hellstrom mutters, but sounding more amused than irritated.  
  
“You're telling me there's not a single figure you're looking forward to seeing, exchanging a few words with, tomorrow night?”  
  
Hellstrom's mouth hints at a smile—a true one, the first Hans has seen today. “There's one, I suppose,” he says quietly.  
  
Hans gives a non-committal “mm” and circles around to stand behind the chair. His hands come to rest upon Hellstrom's shoulders, thumbs pressing near his collar as if he might administer a massage. “So, see, even _you_ , my dear _Meisepeter_ , are not immune. You might do well to siphon this apprehension of yours into a... more productive outlet, rather than taking it out on innocent officers.”  
  
“Apprehension?” Hellstrom repeats. Hans doesn't select his words thoughtlessly, and it's not a term Hellstrom has likely heard applied to him very often.  
  
“Well, yes. Unless you can think of a more appropriate description?” Hans begins rubbing his thumbs in a slow, circular motion, applying a fair amount of pressure to the tense muscles below Hellstrom's neck. “Because I don't believe you're paranoid, no; that would denote your fears have risen out of delusion. But I do think...” Hans pauses, more careful than he would be with anyone else. “That your sense of awareness when it comes to possible threats is...”  
  
“Heightened?” Hellstrom offers as he starts to loosen beneath Hans's touch.  
  
“I was going to say _exaggerated_. That isn't to say that we've every reason to keep security so tight, given the state of... _the world_ , but you seem to be entertaining only the worst possible scenarios, Dieter. Which is what I believe is contributing to your fraying nerves.”  
  
“Are you going to fault me? After all the destruction Germany's seen in the past year alone?”  
  
“No. But this isn't Berlin,” Hans says, tired of hedging around it. His massage comes to a halt, and his thumb moves in the barest stroke along the edge of Hellstrom's collar, brushing the nape of his neck where his hair meets the tiny heart-shaped freckle Hans loves to tease him about.  
  
“I'm talking about the nation as a whole. I don't give a damn about _Berlin_.”  
  
That's what he says, and perhaps it's the case today, this very minute, even. But however much Hellstrom professes to despise his birthplace, he wrestles with cherishing it just as much. The Berlin he swears will never truly be home, that is a minefield pockmarked with all sorts of unspeakable traumas is the same Berlin that Hellstrom has asked Hans to return with him to someday, after Germany's victory.  
  
The lighter, spinning faster, fumbles out of Hellstrom's hold and clutters loudly onto the desk. With a curse, he retrieves it, then goes for the case stashed in his inner uniform pocket.  
  
Hans is quick to snatch it and slap it down onto the desk. “ _Nein_ , put that away. You know the fräulein's rules; no smoking in the cinema, office included.” Hans can sense Hellstrom about to say something to the effect of Mimieux's 'rules' being shoved up her little French behind, and promptly adds, “And it's simply common sense. You don't want to blow us all to Kingdom come, now, do you? And meet the same fate as your parents?”  
  
The flippant mention of his mother and stepfather, two out of the thousands of casualties of the RAF's air raids, causes Hellstrom a moment's pause. But then he answers, deadpan, “Only if Zoller were here.”  
  
Hans laughs quietly. While Hellstrom's contempt of Zoller _is_ humorous, it isn't something he should encourage. Not that Hans has ever paid much heed to the _shoulds_ in life.  
  
“Really, he's just a boy. Do you realize how petty it is that you loathe him so intensely?”  
  
“Yes,” Hellstrom replies without hesitation. “Absolutely.”  
  
Hans chuckles again, moving a half-step so he's more to Hellstrom's side than directly behind him. “I understand perfectly; his heroism is nothing more than happenstance. It could have been anyone in that tower, _ja_? Not to say he didn't need to perform in an exceptional manner, keep his wits about him, but—”  
  
“But he treats it as a stepping stone for his career—you've seen how fixated he is on this Mimieux _hure_ , heard the interviews he's given versus how he is during dinners and other functions, when Goebbels isn't pulling the strings. Do you really think Zoller cares about the _Vaterland_ as much as he does about his precious world of cinema, his own status?”  
  
“You know, for not wanting to talk about Zoller, you sure have a lot to say about him.”  
  
“Answer the fucking question, Hans: do you _really_ think he has anything other than his own interest at heart?”  
  
“I don't give Zoller very much thought,” Hans answers truthfully.  
  
“Well, _I_ do. And I can't deny how impressive it is that he staved off the Allies like he did, but I'm also not going to act like he isn't an inconvenience. I feel like I'm playing _Kinderhuter_ nearly every time we're with him, instead of interacting with some honorable hero.”  
  
Hans wants to argue that Zoller is young and starry-eyed, that this is all a whirlwind to him and it's more ignorance than selfishness that drives his behavior, but then again, Hans doesn't care enough about the boy to defend him. However, it's explicitly plain to him that the severity of Hellstrom's judgment is born not out of Zoller's achievements, but that Hellstrom's own accomplishments receive little to no fanfare. Not that Hellstrom wants glory—he doesn't; he's respected and well-feared among the high command, which is more than enough for him. But it is, presumably, the principle of the thing; that he has an incredibly rigid perception of who _else_ is deserving of such respect. Hans, for example. Not Zoller.  
  
“We're at war; inconvenience is a mere part of daily life, I'm afraid, even for those of us who've risen above the hardships brought forth by the Jews' attempts at interloping and their continued duplicity.” Hans leans against the desk, looking down at his sulky _Sturmbannführer._ “You've every right to complain, but—”  
  
“I'm not _complaining_. I'm pointing out how completely asinine it is that Zoller gets what Zoller wants, with no consideration to our time and resources.” Hellstrom fiddles with the cigarette case and finally repockets it, letting out a frustrated sigh. “While _others_ , who outrank him, are relegated to tasks more befitting a lowly _Schütze_.”  
  
Ah. Hans fails at keeping a smile from cropping up, recalling the events of a little over two weeks ago. “Is that what this is all about? You're pitching a _Wutanfall_ because of _one day_ of administrative duty.”  
  
“I didn't come all the way to France to seal envelopes.”  
  
“It was a _necessary_ task.”  
  
“ _Schwachsinn_ , then Zoller could've done it himself, since he wanted the venue changed. He shouldn't have had any problem with licking that many envelopes, professional _Speichellecker_ that he is.”  
  
“ _Mein Gott_ , fine, I'll admit it,” Hans says with a heavy sigh. Oh, how he is now also wishing that smoking wasn't prohibited inside Le Gamaar. “ _I_ nominated you for the job. _Someone_ had to prepare those invitations. Folding, stuffing... _licking_.” He elongates the word, tongue mimicking it by swiping over his lips.  
  
Hellstrom glares at him, at the crude innuendo.  
  
“Can you blame me?” Hans asks, as though shocked Hellstrom would react this way. “You know full well I've first-hand knowledge that you were a perfect fit for such a role.”  
  
“Oh? Then I'll let Doktor Goebbels know you can step in and fill Francesca's role if she's ever ill, since you've first-hand knowledge in what _that_ entails.” Hellstrom gives Hans a false smile. “In all facets.”  
  
“Ha!” Hans grins, the familiar sweep of desire that comes with Hellstrom's insults making itself known. “But honestly, you know how easily bored I can get—it _does_ help knowing that should I need a diversion of sorts, one is close by.”  
  
And diversion Hellstrom had been that afternoon. It was a small wonder that none of the invitations had gotten lost under shelves or other furniture, when Hans had appeared around lunchtime and locked the door behind him, as he had today, and made Hellstrom clear off the desk.  
  
Hellstrom, apparently, does not share this memory with such fondness. He maintains the phony service smile he employs with obtuse _Soldaten_ or flirtatious women. Or, quite often, Hans.  
  
“Hans,” he says, no tinge of emotion.  
  
“ _Ja_?”  
  
Still smiling. “How many times have we fucked?”  
  
“Ah... sixty-four, I believe?”  
  
“Sixty—...?” The smile falters; Hellstrom blinks. “You've kept track?”  
  
“ _Nein_ , of course not; I made that up.” He pats Hellstrom on the back of the head, and is met with an enraged huff as Hellstrom pushes his hand away. “But it's probably a more accurate estimate, than not, don't you think?”  
  
Hellstrom sighs.  
  
“Why?” Hans says. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Because every single _fucking_ time you have to make a production out of it, instead of just coming right out with it and telling me what you want.”  
  
“Not... not _every_ time.” If Hellstrom is intoxicated, things are _drastically_ different. But those are special occasions, ones Hans doesn't like to overdo.  
  
“Yes. Like bringing up licking the envelopes. Or a little bit ago, you said I should find a more productive outlet than snapping at the other officers. As if I don't know what you mean.” Hellstrom taps the desk, not breaking eye contact with Hans. “That you want to fuck in this office before I leave.”  
  
“Of course I want to fuck in the office before you leave. Why do you think I locked the door?”  
  
“Then why aren't we _doing_ that, and instead talking about _gottverdammt_ Fredrick Zoller?”  
  
“ _You've_ been talking about Zoller. I've been letting you because... well, look at you, Dieter; now you're all pent up with anger, with no one to take it out on. I like to consider it our very own special brand of foreplay. You don't seem to like much else anyway.”  
  
Which is true. Hellstrom is impatient, and hardly generous when it comes to sex—with a few exceptions Hans has coaxed out of him over the years.  
  
Hellstrom scoffs. “I don't know why I put up with this; you and your little games, Hans—they're tiresome. _You're_ tiresome.”  
  
“Oh, I know why. It's as you said to me once: I'm all you have.”  
  
Hellstrom's mouth presses flat; pink starts to bloom across his cheeks. He doesn't argue, which is a response in and of itself.  
  
Hans laughs through his nose, smirk creeping wider. Ah, the truths miserable little _Sturmbannführer_ will divulge when they find out their self-estranged family is dead.  
  
“And perhaps I wouldn't need to play all these 'little games' and make all these suggestive remarks that are apparently oh-so-tiresome, and _you_ wouldn't have to lick hundred of envelopes, if you'd take it upon yourself to show initiative once in a while.” He places a hand on Hellstrom's shoulder, fingers curling and inching towards his neck. His thumb stretches, running along Hellstrom's tightened jaw. “Hm?”  
  
Hans prepares to have his hand violently flung off, accompanied by a scathing insult. But no, Hellstrom stands, and Hans has just enough time to hope this means he'll be gripped by the jacket, jostled, and thrown down onto the desk, before that's also disproved.  
  
One hand shoves the chair over and the other goes around Hans, to his back, draws him close— _taking initiative_. A gasp almost slips from Hans but it's swallowed by Hellstrom's mouth on his, an action even _more_ gasp-worthy. But far be it from Hans to protest at this juncture; he allows the kiss to deepen. His own hands fold carefully around Hellstrom's biceps, a means to keep him rushing past this pleasantly rare occurrence.  
  
Hans is always the one to exhibit more tender gestures, ones he seldom means but know have a dizzying effect on Hellstrom. Hellstrom, conversely, does not deem Hans worthy of contact unless it's aggressive: striking Hans, pushing him or pinning him back against a wall or down in the backseat of a car.  
  
Other than their first night after reuniting in France, Hellstrom has been vulnerable. It's all this nonsense with Berlin and his family, that he claims is of no consequence, that—and he hasn't stated it, but Hans suspects—he must think was purged entirely the evening he learned of the news, when he _permitted_ Hans access to his raw and wounded emotions. He's effectively packed it all back inside, compartmentalized it as is required, or so he believes. The desperation of the kisses, the undisguised _need_ as he pushes at Hans, tries to maneuver him onto the desk, not just leaning against it, is laughable in its transparency.  
  
And Hans _might_ laugh, were he not unconsciously groaning, whispering praise through the furious kisses that only inspire Hellstrom to start undoing Hans's belt the second he's seated himself at desk's edge.  
  
“Just like old times,” Hans says, helping with Hellstrom's belt once his own is unbuckled. Their first ever encounter had been a decade ago, in Hans's office—on his desk, even—and to this day is a primary go-to when it comes to masturbatory fantasies.  
  
And exactly like that first time, Hellstrom brims with arrogance. “ _Ja_ , still the same _dreckige Schlampe_ now that you were then,” he says, wasting no time in yanking down the band of Hans's underwear and freeing his half-hard cock.  
  
Before anything more than a shudder escapes Hans's mouth, Hellstrom's hand haphazardly splays over it, tilting his head back and granting better access to his neck. Hellstrom sucks a possessive trail up to Hans's jaw, to his ear, where he bites at the lobe. Tugs, and not gently.  
  
This time, Hans's gasp is audible, and when his lips part, three of Hellstrom's fingers slide smoothly into his mouth. Hans knows what this means, what's being asked of him, and he obeys, willful and thorough in his effort. The fingers taste of metal, from Hellstrom handling his lighter.  
  
They hardly ever bother with their uniforms, and this is no exception. All he wants—all Hellstrom wants, too—is the release, and the thrill building to it. Sometimes Hans wishes it could be less crude, less sloppy; all the spit and stains, the musky mix of sweat and cologne and smoke and _sex_ that seems permanently embedded in their uniforms, no matter how often they had them cleaned.  
  
But he doesn't wish for it _that_ terribly.  
  
Hellstrom's hand drops, and Hans shifts on the desk, ready for what's next. He's barely moved when Hellstrom, with his dry hand, grabs Hans's arm forcefully, preventing him from turning any further. “ _Nein_ , stay like this.”  
  
 _Oh_. Interesting. But hardly unwelcome. Even less unwelcome is a blessed wet coolness interrupting the feverish heat rippling around them, as Hellstrom's grip is thrust down between their legs, closed sheath-like over both their cocks and setting off at a frantic pace.  
  
Hans's legs hook around Hellstrom, bringing their bodies truly flush against one another's. The frenzied pumping continually thumps at Hans's torso, offbeat to his racing heart, and arrhythmic to their erratic breathing. He could voice _so_ much right now about how Hellstrom's hunger for him is just as delectable, but there's no opportunity, with how ceaselessly he's being kissed.  
  
Try as he might to match his motion, he can't keep speed with Hellstrom's hand. This would be far more balanced were they laying down, perhaps in Hans's bedroom, but they've made do in less accommodating spaces than this. Hans suspects— _prays—_ that Hellstrom won't allow him to finish in this fashion, anyway.  
  
It isn't that he likes it any more or any less, he simply… well, _likes_ it, is all. There are few things Hans enjoys more than teasing Hellstrom, and one of them is having sex with him _after_ said teasing. Another is the moments, the slivers of seconds that could have easily been imagined, where Hellstrom's defenses will lower and he'll show reluctance over their relations ending—when he'll _have_ to recompose himself into a respectable officer; the Aryan ideal who is firm and unyielding in the _Führer_ and his vision, not the starved, tortured degenerate seconds from being shipped off to a camp himself.  
  
Hans savors the power, the hold he has over Hellstrom in this sense—one word from Hans, and his life would be forfeit. His dedication to the Reich, his numerous arrests and interrogations, rendered void simply because of an inability to cleanse these impure desires of pleasuring other men, have them do the same to him. Nazi Germany doesn't tolerate such deviance, but Hans does—so long as he's allowed to take part, of course, and it's kept discreet.  
  
This is quite the detour from the predictable course their encounters usually take, but nothing Hans is even faintly dissuaded by. However much Hellstrom wants to believe the control is his, it is equitably _not;_ it is, and always will be, Hans's.  
  
Hans squeezes his thighs tighter, urging Hellstrom to not let up. For as peculiar as it is—Hellstrom is rarely accepting of them having sex facing each other like this; the risk of kissing, as they are now, is too great—it's positively electric. Hans adores the sensation of them fitted together, revels in the exact movements, the precision and _detail_ of Hellstrom. _His_ slender frame and its deceptive strength pressing down and keeping Hans in place, uncompromising no matter how much Hans attempts to reclaim control. _His_ cock, stiff and slick, sliding against Hans's. _His_ breath, scented with tobacco, practically scorching Hans's lips, chin, neck from how it burns so hotly with need.  
  
It's so _different_ this time—Hans is used to a _little_ warning, in the form of Hellstrom's flood of cursing, but there's only a sharp, surprised “ _Hans_!” into his neck that precedes the sticky warmth coating his groin, his thighs, his own cock. Oh, it's _delightful_ , the full body spasm Hans feels as he chuckles softly and continues to rock his hips up as though nothing remotely eventful has happened.  
  
Hellstrom sinks against Hans, who sighs and gives in to the silent request, keeping him upright with hands on either side of his face. His thumbs stroke Hellstrom gently along his cheekbones, prompting for _more_ but the kiss is futile, hardly a kiss at all with its countless _fuck_ s cut off by stunted gasps. However, it's more than what Hellstrom is typically willing to give, and so Hans does his best to reciprocate. Slow, tugging and sucking at Hellstrom's lip, Hans makes it clear how he hopes Hellstrom will finish him. Really, he doesn't need to _ask_ anymore, to even suggest. Hellstrom is always willing, and a thousand times more than able to suck Hans off with total abandon.  
  
And if anyone would ever wonder why Hans doesn't turn his _Sturmbannführer_ in, see him exposed and tried for such traitorous behavior— _this_ is why. He won't admit it, even to Hellstrom, but in the midst of their endless trysts, Hans cares far more about the tight, wet heat circling his cock than any future Hitler foresaw for Germany.  
  
Hellstrom, finally able to gather his breath, kisses Hans once more in earnest—his hand even momentarily grips the back of Hans's head, fist in his hair—and pushes back from the desk. He drops to his knees, grabs Hans by either leg, and pulls him forward. Hans's feet barely hit the floor before he's engulfed with a euphoric warmth that only Hellstrom, so obliging and proficient, brings him.  
  
He's glad to be standing now, able to set one elbow back against the desk and brace himself as the other remains stationed at the back of Hellstrom's head. Hans doesn't have to do much else, save for keeping his thumb skimming back and forth, steady, reassuring, along the crown of Hellstrom's now-disheveled hair. There is something compelling and erotic about Hellstrom's utter lack of restraint, having no qualms about tasting and swallowing his own fluids, and just the thought of it brings Hans to a rather anticlimactic climax, which Hellstrom also swallows.  
  
 _Gott_ , what...? _Nein_ , this is not acceptable; after such a fiery, unprecedented entanglement, it ends with what's nary more than a whimper? This won't do, not at all.  
  
But Hellstrom's already standing, shoving away from Hans as he does. He fastens his slacks and belt, and is smoothing his rumpled hair down as he wordlessly crosses to the door. After unlocking it and peeking out momentarily, he leaves, presumably on his way to the men's restroom to finish cleaning off.  
  
Hans is left to his own devices for the next few minutes, and it's a reprieve that he needs, as he collects his thoughts and cleans off with the handkerchief from his jacket.  
  
These things happened; hell, there's been times when he'd been unable to finish a _besoffen_ Hellstrom off at all. But it's still regrettable, although it's not as if Hellstrom is going to pay him any _less_ respect for it—that's an impossibility, at this point.  
  
Hellstrom returns, hair presentable and expression dour. Hans puts on his trademark cheerful smile. “So where were we...? Oh, right... just to confirm: you _do_ want the rest of the afternoon off, I take it?”  
  
“Sure,” Hellstrom says, and then shocks Hans by asking, without any reluctance, “What about tonight, though? La Louisiane?”  
  
Hans has always been the one to extend the invitation. It's been a favorite haunt of his during the stretches of time he's spent in Paris, and Hellstrom only accepts because he knows how the night will inevitably culminate, with the two of them back at Hans's Paris townhome, drunk on lust and alcohol and in various stages of undress. For Hellstrom to suggest it is perhaps not the most unanticipated development, given the subtle variance of his demeanor ever since the Berlin bombings last year, and Hans _did_ say he wished for Hellstrom to take initiative every now and then. But...  
  
“Well, I can't go _with_ you—the _Führer_ arrived today, you know. He and Goebbels invited me to dine with them later. Göring too, no doubt, and of course your _Busenfreund_ Schütze Zoller will be there, as well.” Hans sees Hellstrom frown at this piece of information, and says, “Hm, perhaps I could see if Fräulein Mondino might join you in my stead—from what I can understand, she'll be available.”  
  
Hellstrom rolls his eyes at the mention of Francesca, but his frown his twitches up into an amused smirk. “ _Nein_ , I'll fair perfectly fine without her—and I don't think it's the sort of place Goebbels would want her visiting.”  
  
Hans isn't entirely sure what's developed between Hellstrom and Francesca; Hellstrom doesn't conceal his general disdain towards women, in all forms, but somehow Francesca has become, at least at times, exempt from his loathing. When Hans has bothered to ask Hellstrom, he's ignored, and when he'd asked Francesca, she'd informed him that she and Hellstrom had—her words— “a lot” in common, with quite the marked emphasis. So, Hans has his suspicions but also finds it unfathomable that Francesca's true interests can be so singular, when she's yet to allow Hans the opportunity to convince her otherwise.  
  
“But if you'd still like to go, I'll have my driver drop you off and I can meet with you afterwards. In fact, I _gladly_ will. There's some things we need to address, about your performance.” He takes a step closer to Hellstrom. “I don't want to say I'm _disappointed_ with you, Dieter, but I must say, I think I got the—what do the Americans say?—the short end of the stick today. If there were more invitations to be sent tomorrow, I dare say I don't think I could rightfully select you to do the honors, hm? Perhaps you need a reminder of how it's done?”  
  
In a snap movement, Hans goes for Hellstrom's belt, aching to feel him hard and ready again so soon, just as he is. But Hellstrom's fingers clamp around Hans's wrists like claws, immobilizing them. “ _Gott_ , you can wait.” He hardly sounds offended—almost entertained, as Hans has so frequently been with him. A sign that he knows Hans is bluffing, and that there was nothing subpar, on his end of things.  
  
Hans responds by stepping forward, their connected limbs causing him to push Hellstrom along. He crushes his mouth to Hellstrom's surprised, parted one and easily slips his tongue in, to preview what Hellstrom can expect once they pick up where they're apparently leaving off. Exquisitely slow, Hans pulls away from the kiss, but his lips still brush Hellstrom's as he murmurs, so softly, but so _very_ full of intent, “ _Fortsetzung folgt..._ ”  
  
WIth an annoyed grunt, Hellstrom wrests free of Hans. Wiping the kiss away, he goes to the door, just a few strides away.  
  
“I'm making no promises that I'll be there, so don't wait up _too_ long,” Hans tells him, the insinuation clear: for Hellstrom to return to his townhome, instead, if it gets too late.  
  
“I only wait for things worth my while,” Hellstrom says over his shoulder as he opens the door and leaves. Hans can see before the door even closes that he's going for the inner pocket of his uniform, where his cigarette case is. He probably needs two, at this point, after what's transpired.  
  
Hans does too; he fishes out his own case, and lights a cigarette. What he'd said about no cigarettes in the cinema hadn't been a lie, but he'd embellished about the restriction on the rest of the building, including the office. Hellstrom didn't know that, though, and had been terrifically wound up as a result, which had been most beneficial for Hans.  
  
Hans smokes his cigarette, replaying the afternoon's events in his mind. It's only when he takes his final drag that it occurs to him that Hellstrom's parting words might not have actually been as inflammatory as they were at face value. He exhales, feeling satisfed and something adjacent, new, that he doesn't have a description for.

* * *

Dinner goes later than Hans expects, but that's not a bad thing.

It's all one grand self-fellating affair, the most notable figures of the Reich congratulating each other, toasting and laughing and drunk on their past triumphs. It's also Zoller's first gathering of this magnitude, and he's bubblier than the champagne being constantly poured and thrust into their waiting hands. The boy tries to stay close to Goebbels, but sometimes ends up at Hans's side as if drawn by a magnet. Hans has half a mind to shake him—he can only imagine Hellstrom's consternation at Zoller's display of comradeship between them—but it's so _fun_ stringing Zoller along, and so he spends the majority of the night doing just that. Oh, he simply _must_ find a way to convince Mimieux to reconsider the young hero... their betrothal really _would_ be spectacular, in the stimulation it would provide for Hans mentally.  
  
Alas, Hans has a long day ahead of him—but first, a long night. He dispenses his cordial goodnights and goodbyes, and finds his way outside, where his Benz is waiting, along with his driver, Otto.  
  
Otto has been with him for several months now, although Hans doesn't keep close track of his drivers anymore; as long as they perform their role, and use discretion regarding anything they might witness, he's gratified. And if they don't, well... he hasn't run into that issue in quite some time; most people, _soldat_ and citizen alike, have learned not to cross Hans Landa.  
  
Otto inclines his head politely. “Where to, Standartenführer Landa?”  
  
“Well, that depends,” says Hans. “You dropped the _Sturmbannführer_ off at that tavern in Nadine earlier, correct?”  
  
“ _Ja,_ sir.”  
  
“And have you since retrieved him?”  
  
 _“Nein,_ sir,” says Otto.  
  
Hans can't help but smile; surely, Hellstrom will act as if his decision to stay was made independent of any desire to wait for Hans, but his adamance of the point will hinge on how many steins of beer he's downed. Regardless, Hans resolves he'll ply his _sturmbannführer_ with one more. He adores the genuine subservience that surfaces every now and again when Hellstrom finds himself too deep in his cups.  
  
“Ah, _wunderbar!_ La Louisiane it is, then.”  
  
After opening the back door for Hans, Otto climbs into the driver's side and starts the engine. As they pull away, the gala, the spectacle and grandeur of it all feels distant, almost otherworldly, to Hans. It's _there_ in his mind, so sparkling and soaring and bright, and then gone, like a film reaching its finale and cutting to a black screen. The only thing proving he even attended is a dull, lingering buzz from the champagne, nothing more than a thin haze behind his eyes. He's nowhere near inebriated, yet knowing what remains for the young night, and _tomorrow_ , especially, fills him to the top with heady anticipation.  
  
He shouldn't lower his guard—to allow himself to be _content_. But there's no other word for what's settled upon him, as he watches the lights of Paris gradually taper off to darkness, replaced by thick, full foliage blotting out the moonlit sky.  
  
It's a cardinal sin in his book, to _accept_ where one is, and not strive for more, for better. Hans has never cared much about what might make him good, only what can lead him to greatness, and his ambition and cunning have provided him with so many of those validating moments, career-wise. But it's perplexing to consider that there's been times with Hellstrom, especially recently, where he's felt, somehow, a strange and not entirely unpleasant combination of both. Great, because the sex _is_ great, and good, because Hellstrom will pant against his neck, his shoulder, or cover Hans's mouth with his own in a way that unquestionably suggests how _good_ it is that they're a staple in each other's lives.  
  
Otto turns the Benz along the familiar curve, takes it down the stretch that will terminate at La Louisiane, and Hans can only be certain that his smug vow to Hellstrom in the office earlier applies not just to their arrangement, but to Hans's career and life as a whole.  
  
 _To be continued._

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this incorporates a lot of personal HCs that I have for Landa and Hellstrom and their relationship but hopefully the fic is still enjoyable without all the backstory fleshed out yet (which I fully intend on doing)! I wanted to write this for my pal **CakeFlavoredFinch** because I have them to thank for getting me absolutely OBSESSED with Landstrom over these past couple months. This is not the ship I went into 2020 expecting to ship like a fckin burning thing, but I mean. Sure. Why not. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! <3 
> 
> And now... to dive into NaNoWriMo with these two, and see where _that_ goes...


End file.
